Twentyfive Red Roses
by poetintraining576
Summary: After an agonizing tea with an insipid witch, Draco Malfoy decides to take his love life into his own hands. Meaning, he lets his friend Blaise pick twenty-five women with whom he can fall in love.
1. The Bet

_A/N: First of all, for any of you that thought this was an update for Le Miroir Magique (Hermione Granger and the Magic Mirror), I sincerely apologize. I've been insanely busy with school for the last nine months, and now that I'm finally on summer break, I needed to write a lighthearted piece, and this is what came out. _

_I don't want to ruin the piece for you, so I'll let you discover the plot as you read. I will, however, say that I am looking for six OCs, and they MUST be female. In order to have an OC selected for this piece, you must review this first chapter and include the following information:_

_Name of character (First and Last)_

_Any nicknames_

_Age of character_

_Country of origin_

_Description of physical appearance_

_3 physical flaws (I do not want Mary Sues!)_

_Description of character's personality_

_3 personality flaws_

_Romantic history (i.e. how many relationships this character has had—how long they lasted, etc.)_

_Are they magical? If so, where did they go to school? If they were at Hogwarts, what house were they in?_

_Any miscellaneous information you think that, as the writer, I would need to know._

_Thank you so much ahead of time for sharing your OCs with me! And for what I have in mind, for the most part, the crazier and/or realer, the better. This is just going to be a fun summer piece that I'm not going to take too seriously, but I hope it will still entertain you all._

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_Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction. The author owns neither The Bachelor nor Harry Potter; those creative rights belong exclusively to ABC and J.K. Rowling/Warner Bros. respectively. Further, the author is not making a profit from this story, nor is copyright infringement intended._

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1. The Bet

Draco nodded, feigning interest. It was a Saturday afternoon in early June, and he was sitting in Malfoy Manor between his mother and some blonde bimbo witch—Evelyn or Esther, he thought her name was—drinking tea. He wished he was drinking Firewhiskey instead; it would make this meeting far more tolerable.

"So, Endora," his mother said from the armchair to his right, "your mother spoke very highly of your musical talent. Would you grace us with a song or two on the piano?"

The bimbo-witch blushed. "Oh, really, I couldn't, Mrs. Malfoy. I'm sure my mother rather exaggerated—"

"Nonsense," his mother said again with a small smile. "I'm sure the both of us would enjoy a bit of music—it's been rather dismal here, since my husband Lucius has been away."

Draco took another sip from his tea and looked at the girl once more. So she had the trademark platinum-blonde Malfoy hair, but she had watery blue eyes, a weak chin, and a rather over-plump figure. He knew his mother's reasons behind these Saturday gatherings with various girls, and frankly, he was tired of it. Draco watched as the girl—her face still crimson—rose and walked toward the baby grand piano at the other end of the room. Draco clutched his wand, ready to cast a silencing charm around his person if need be; given the witch's modesty earlier, it was bound to be awful.

And indeed, she no sooner began to play Beethoven's "Fur Elise," than Draco wanted to pierce his eardrums with his wand—her tempo was inconsistent, she used the pedal too heavily, and she missed notes. For someone who had learned to play the piano before he could fly a broomstick (though Draco rarely ever mentioned this to his peers), this was torture, and Draco was relatively sure he was in hell right now.

After several painful moments, the girl looked up—her face crimson once again—and she stopped. "I've forgotten the rest," she admitted, looking directly at Draco. "I'm sorry."

He felt a tight smile cross his face. "It's quite all right."

She beamed at this, and Draco resisted the urge to gag. "Mother," he said, setting his empty teacup down on its saucer, "would you please excuse me for a moment?" And, without waiting for his mother's reply—for it would surely be a polite 'no'—he left the sitting room and headed toward his father's study.

As he climbed the stairs and headed to the west wing of the manor, Draco ran his finger along the banister; when he removed it, it was coated in dust. Merlin, he'd known his mother hadn't asked the elves to clean this wing of the manor ever since his father had been placed in Azkaban nearly four years ago, but this was atrocious. He'd talk to Batty later today—he'd ask her to clean it after she finished the laundry.

At last, Draco reached his father's study. It too, was dusty—Draco cast a Cleaning Charm for the worst of it—and the fireplace was cold, only empty coals in its grate. Draco tossed some green Floo Powder into the dead grate and watched as a fire roared to life. He stuck his head in and contacted his good friend, Blaise Zabini.

"Ah, hello mate," Blaise said from his fireplace, chuckling as he nursed a glass of Firewhiskey. "I was beginning to think you weren't dropping by this afternoon. So, what is it this time—another ugly bird? Another barmy one? Or has your mother finally gotten it right?"

Draco scowled. "This one's ugly as a troll, insipid, and she can't play the piano."

"Bollocks," Blaise said. He tipped his head back and finished off his tumbler, hissing slightly. "So, when are you going to tell Mother Dearest that you're not interested in women and you're thinking about shagging Harry Potter?"

If possible, Draco's scowl grew. "You tosser. You know very well that I like women—and if my head weren't stuck in a grate right now, I would curse you for even _suggesting_ that I would ever desire to have intimate relations with Potter."

Blaise laughed. "Someone's sensitive. This girl must actually be awful."

"They're all awful, Blaise," Draco spat. "You think you could last through one tea with any of these witches?"

"Yes, I do," Blaise said seriously as he walked across the room to grab a half-full bottle of Firewhiskey. "Most of the birds you've told me about have seemed perfectly decent, and some of them have even sounded pleasant, once I blocked out all the Malfoy-purebred-aristocrat bullshit. And that's generally easy to ignore given I've been your closest friend for four years now."

"Is it now?" Draco asked, feeling his eyes narrow and his cheeks grow warm. _Merlin_, he wished he could hex Blaise right now.

Blaise nodded, pouring himself a drink. "It really is. You see, I realized the only reason you complain is because you're scared of marriage—you're scared of actually opening up to someone. You, Draco Abraxas Malfoy Pureblood Arse-highness, are scared of falling in love."

Scoffing, Draco sneered. "I am not scared of something as trivial as love. Or marriage, for that matter. I simply don't fancy any of the girls that my mother has invited to the manor."

"Aha! But that's my point exactly," Blaise said, pointing his finger directly at the fireplace. "You don't like any of these birds not because they're not beautiful or intelligent or witty, but because you're terrified of appearing to have a soul. Trust me, Draco, emotions aren't the evil that you've been lead to believe."

"Emotions betray weakness, and Malfoys are not weak," Draco replied, glancing at the clock. "And as much as I enjoy your idiotic conclusions, Zabini, I really must return to the sitting room. My mother is bound to wonder what I'm up to."

Blaise perched on the end of his leather armchair and sighed. "Very well, Malfoy," he said. "But I bet you one thousand galleons that you'll never fall in love because you're so in denial about your own emotional state." He smirked, and Draco could feel his friend baiting him—but he didn't know why.

"That's a horrible gamble on your part," Draco said coldly. "Because in order to say that I'll never fall in love, you would have to wait until my deathbed—and if I do fall in love before that, I'd win a thousand galleons. This bet would either end in a draw or in my favor. What's your aim, Zabini?"

Smiling at his friend, Blaise shook his head. "Now, now, Drakie, I thought your ickle Mumsie was calling you—go be a good boy and play with the nice lady."

"You wanker," Draco muttered. "I'm going to win that goddamn bet." And yanking his head from the fireplace, Draco stomped downstairs, determined to prove his friend wrong.


	2. The Proposal

_A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm still looking for a few OCs to round out my story. I think I'll be going a more serious route than I initially intended, but it should still be very humorous and light-hearted… just less of a farce. _

_If you're interested in submitting your OC to be a part of this story, please see the first chapter. There, I have a detailed explanation of what you should do. If you have any questions, please let me know, though I did try to make it relatively self-explanatory. _

_That said, please relax, and enjoy the second installment of _Twenty-five Red Roses_._

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2. The Proposal

That following Monday, Draco went to The Three Broomsticks and bought that day's copy of _The Daily Prophet, _searching through the adverts. Yes, Mother would be thrilled if he asked for her advice, but surely, there had to be a personal advertisement for someone halfway beautiful and interesting. And given his mother's track record so far, any girl with whom she intended to match him would be so repulsive that Draco would be tempted to shell out the thousand galleons immediately and forfeit the bet. No, it would be better to do this himself.

But after searching through the entire contents of that day's _Prophet_ (and the one from the day before, and even that week's _Quibbler_), Draco was forced to admit defeat. Any woman who listed themselves in these ads sounded like a horribly desperate Kneazle-loving Squib. If possible, they all seemed worse than that Ethel (or was it Ermine?) from yesterday.

Sighing, Draco pushed the periodicals away from him and glared at his mug. The stinking golden gleam of Butterbeer smiled at him, and Draco pushed that away as well. A curvy barmaid—not Madame Rosmerta, she retired a couple years ago—walked past, and Draco stopped her, grabbing her elbow.

"Excuse me, but my Butterbeer's rotten. I'd like a glass of Firewhiskey instead," he said, shoving the half-full mug toward the woman.

The woman rolled her eyes but accepted the mug. "Your Butterbeer's not rotten—it's you that can't tolerate the Butterbeer." As she walked behind the counter, Draco could hear her muttering something about ungrateful toe-rags and insufferable prats.

She returned after a few moments with a clean glass full of a clear substance. Draco grabbed it from her, plunking a galleon on the table, and felt the familiar sting of Firewhiskey. Ah, yes, that felt nice.

"Will you be wanting anything else, sir?" the barmaid asked.

Draco glanced up at her. She was actually quite attractive with long curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. Too bad she probably wasn't a pureblood. Draco shook his head, taking another gulp of his Firewhiskey and waving his hand to dismiss her. Instead of leaving, she plunked herself down on the chair across from him, sitting on it backwards and leaning against the spindles.

"You know," she said, "I have to wonder what kind of bloke would stumble in here at ten in the morning, ordering Firewhiskey. You clearly don't have a job at the Ministry—since you're here on a Monday—yet you're dressed like you're going to a business meeting. So, you must be wealthy—probably living off your parents' money, and feeling entitled to drink because something trivial upset you."

Glowering at the girl, Draco took another swig from his drink. "I do believe," he said coldly, "that barmaids aren't supposed to harass the patrons, and I'd be more than pleased to speak with your employer about that subject."

"Oh, that's rich," the maid said, cocking her head to the side and laughing. "My employer, Hannah Abbott, won't give a rat's arse about me bothering you. It's the regulars that I have to be careful of upsetting, and none of them are very sensitive—just you."

Draco folded his lips together. There was that word again: sensitive. He was not a bloody girl for Merlin's sake! "I am not sensitive," he retorted, gulping at his Firewhiskey once more.

The girl just rolled her eyes. "If you say so. Do you want to at least share with me what's making you so bloody cross, then?"

"Not particularly," Draco said coolly, finishing his Firewhiskey. He placed another galleon on the table. "But I'll take another Firewhiskey."

Sighing, the barmaid left, only to return a few moments later with another glass of Firewhiskey. Draco downed it quickly and requested yet another drink, plunking down another galleon on the table. This happened two more times in quick succession, and by this point, Draco could feel that his head was fuzzy, and he could see the barmaid sitting across from him going in and out of focus.

"So, you don't work at the Ministry," the barmaid sitting across from him said. "Where do you work?"

"Nowhere," Draco mumbled, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. "My father made some investments, and we live on the interest they accrue. But, he thinks I don't know what he's doing—but I do. He's trying to hide things from me, important things."

"I see," she said. She pulled out a pocket watch, and Draco noticed a brown curl fell into her face. "It's nearly eleven. Would you like something to eat?"

"No, but I'll take another—"

"I'm not getting you another Firewhiskey," the barmaid said, exasperated. "You're already pissed off your arse, and it's not even noon."

"What if I give you a hundred galleons?" he slurred. "I'll make it worth your while."

The maid rolled her eyes. "No, I'm cutting you off."

"A thousand galleons?"

Standing up, she just looked at Draco in utter disbelief. "Why do you want to get blathered so badly? Wait, let me rephrase that: why do you want to get so pissed that you pass out? Because if I give you another drink, that's what will happen."

Draco glared at the woman. "T'hell it will. I can hold my… liquor." He coughed, and then turning his head, he vomited.

"Clearly." She sighed. "Is there anyone that I can call to come get you? Your _parents_, perhaps?"

In response, Draco just vomited once more.

* * *

An hour later, Blaise arrived at the bar and helped his friend stumble to the curbside.

"So, Draco," he said, once they'd apparated to Zabini Manor, "why'd you get so hammered on a Monday morning? Have you no sense?"

"Dear Merlin, leave me alone, Zabini," he growled. Then, stumbling to the nearby sitting room, he flopped onto the couch, only to shuffle off to the bathroom almost immediately. From the foyer, Blaise heard him retch, so, sighing, he walked through the marble hall until he reached a small room on the side where Draco sat, kneeling, over the toilet. Despite his annoyance, Blaise felt his lips quirk up in a small smile.

"So, are you going to tell me why you're so sloshed when it's barely even noon?" he asked. Draco just glared at him.

"None of your damn business, Zabini." Draco vomited again, and Blaise tried not to wince. It was a wretched noise.

"It is if you're puking in my mother's marble toilet," he retorted.

Draco only vomited in reply.

"Really, Draco," Blaise continued, "as your friend, this concerns me greatly. Besides, I won't give you a Sobering Potion until you tell me what in this godforsaken world caused you to drink so much Firewhiskey that you puked."

Looking up from the toilet, Draco glowered at him. "I was drowning myself in liquor—"

Blaise snorted. "That much was apparent."

"—because I realized there was no hope of me ever winning your bet. Any woman who is single at my age is a Kneazle-loving Squib." Then, moving his head back toward the toilet, Draco heaved again.

Shaking his head, Blaise smiled grimly at his friend. "If you want help meeting women, from someone besides your mother, I would have been only too happy to oblige. In fact, I've started watching this Muggle programme—"

"Oh, Dear Merlin—"

"—and it's quite interesting, which surprised me. This bloke, the bachelor, they call him—"

"I don't like where this is going, Blaise," Draco muttered, kneeling on the floor, his blonde hair pasted to his glistening skin. "Not one bit."

"—and he has his choice of twenty-five women. Of course, we could find more women for you, since you're more hopeless than his bachelor fellow…"

"If you think I'd do anything like that," Draco spat, gripping the edge of the countertop, "you're mad, Zabini." Pulling himself up slowly, he exited the bathroom, pushing past his host and best friend. "I'm going to lie down."

"But, Draco," Blaise protested, "You dislike meeting women one-on-one because you always have problems with them. And you love having women fawn over you. Why isn't this a great idea?"

Humor him. He would humor him, for just a moment. "All right, Blaise," Draco said as he continued toward the guest room, grabbing the side of his head. "First question: where would we find twenty-five pureblooded witches that are attractive and roughly my own age? Not to mention that Mother has forced me to meet several of them already, and I cared for none of them."

"Well," Blaise admitted, "we might have to find some foreign women or some half-bloods…"

"Half-bloods? Are you out of your mind?" Draco scoffed. "Half-bloods? Yes, my mother would be _thrilled _about that. And my father would turn in his grave—dilute the purity the Malfoy line with some half-blood twit? No, thank you, Blaise."

"See, this is part of the problem, Draco!" Blaise said hotly, storming after his friend. "You think blood purity is more important than having a connection with someone, more important than love. I'm dating a Muggle—not a Muggle-born witch, mind you—and she's bloody perfect! Once I realized that she was witty and intelligent and of course, she's bloody gorgeous, I didn't care that she was non-magical. Yes, she thinks I'm just some normal bloke from the West End—"

"So, you're lying to her," Draco said gleefully. "Of course."

"—but we have something rare and, call me a sap, beautiful."

"Oh, god," Draco said, with a guffaw, "you _love_ her."

"Yes, I do," said Blaise, now heaving his friend's weight toward the guest room, "and that is more important than the purity of someone's blood, or even whether they're magical or not. Because, Draco, if you marry this bird, you'll be spending the rest of your life with her."

Rolling his eyes, Draco tried to squirm from his friend's grasp. "I don't care about love."

Blaise exhaled, folding his lips together. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Draco intently. "The hell you don't. You just told me a few minutes ago that you wanted to win the bet I set out for you yesterday. And you can lie to yourself, but you can't fool me, Draco. _No one_ wants to live without love."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Fine. You know what, Blaise?" Draco finally said, swaying as he stood on his own. "I'll do this Muggle bachelor shite—you can pick all the barmy, inane girls that you want, but if I don't fall in love with any of them, I still win my 1000 galleons. Deal?"

Blaise smirked. "Deal."

"Now, leave me the bloody hell alone, and get me a Sobering Potion, would you? I have a sodding headache like you wouldn't believe." Then Draco stomped off to the guest room, banging into the walls as he went.


End file.
